


Wine Stains And Waistcoats

by flawedamythyst



Series: Horse And Carriage [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Sherlock and Lestrade interrupted one of John's dates.</p>
<p>I am heavily indebted to both Veronamay and Earlgreytea68 for their help with this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wine Stains And Waistcoats

August 2012

Sherlock was engrossed in some science experiment, wrapped in a dressing gown covered in scorch marks, wearing goggles and looking more like a mad scientist than Lestrade was entirely comfortable with. He wondered if John had gone to get supplies in case Sherlock somehow managed to create a super-virus or something else that would signal the end of all life as they knew it.

“And you're sure this case is worthy my time?” asked Sherlock. “This experiment is at a crucial point.”

“Yes, I'm sure,” said Lestrade through gritted teeth. Someone was dead. That should always be more important than a science project. He ran through the highlights of the case again. “Locked room, barred windows, no sign of the murder weapon.”

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, then nodded. “Fine. I'll need a moment to sort this out first, or it will gas half of Baker Street while I'm gone.” He turned back to his equipment and Lestrade hoped, really hoped, that he was kidding. No one, especially not Sherlock Holmes, should be conducting experiments that were that dangerous in a domestic environment.

“And we'll have to pick up John on the way,” added Sherlock, as if that should have been obvious. Perhaps it should have. 

It had been six months since Lestrade had noticed John's wedding ring and Sherlock had gleefully admitted to being his husband, but they had been a package deal since long before that. There had been cases that Sherlock had worked alone, when John had been at work or the case had been too easily solved for Sherlock to bother contacting him, but Lestrade had noticed that Sherlock's usual manic enthusiasm always seemed a bit lacking on those ones. Certainly he explained himself less and was more prone to disappearing off to get into a horribly dangerous situation without back-up. It was better for everyone when John was along.

“You came in a taxi,” continued Sherlock. “Sensible, you knew I wouldn't travel in a police car – but you didn't ask it to wait. Short-sighted, we'll need another.”

He finished whatever he was doing with his test tubes, took off his dressing gown to reveal a suit underneath – of course, why not? - then caught up his coat. “Come on,” he said as if Lestrade was the one holding them up, and headed downstairs.

“Where is John?” asked Lestrade as he followed him out into the street.

“At a restaurant,” said Sherlock, which was absolutely no help at all. He managed to hail a cab immediately, without any of the hassle Lestrade always went through to get one, then gave the driver the address of a mid-level Italian that was only a little out of their way.

It was clear he was getting no further details from Sherlock, so Lestrade just sat back with a sigh and wondered what John was doing in a place like that. Some sort of family thing? He had a sister, didn't he? He could definitely picture Sherlock as the kind of husband who ducked out of family obligations in order to stay home and play Frankenstein.

He found himself guiltily remembering how often he'd found reasons to avoid his ex-wife's family, before the divorce had ended all his obligations to put up with her ghastly mother and overbearing sister. _At least I was just working,_ he thought. When Karen had been the one making excuses, it had been so she could nip off and shag other blokes.

The cab pulled up at the restaurant. “Wait for us,” said Sherlock to the driver, then glanced at Lestrade. “Coming?”

If John was with family, presumably it would look more official if he was called away to a murder by a DI, rather than just his crackpot husband. Lestrade nodded and followed Sherlock out of the cab.

Inside, John was easy enough to spot, sitting at a table with a dark-haired woman. Sherlock took a look at them and tipped his head to one side. “Look at his body language,” he said.

Lestrade looked at John. “He's sitting,” he offered.

Sherlock huffed a sigh. “Look at his hands,” he said. “Right hand in his pocket, probably resting on his phone, hoping for a text that will give him an excuse to leave. Left hand pressed carefully on the table – worried his tremor will come back, although it hasn't. Clearly, he's bored out of his skull.” 

Lestrade looked John over again. He did look a bit slumped around the shoulders, but his eyes were fixed on the woman, and the look on his face didn't say bored. “He's smiling,” he pointed out.

Sherlock scoffed. “That's the smile he uses when he thinks he should be smiling. When he's genuinely pleased, he has quite a different look. Time to interrupt.”

He glanced at a near-by table and grabbed a napkin from it, shoving it into his pocket as he strode across the room.

“John!” he called. “There's been a murder. Time to go.”

John turned in his chair with a startled look, took in Sherlock, then glanced at Lestrade, who gave him a nod of greeting that he hoped expressed a silent apology for the invasion of his dinner.

“What's going on?” asked the woman.

“Something far more important than you has come up,” said Sherlock. “Come on, John, the cab is waiting.”

“Sherlock,” said John, “I told you-”

“That you'd love, honour and obey?” interrupted Sherlock. “Yes, I remember.”

“What?” asked the woman, sounding surprised. Probably not John's sister then, or she'd have known that.

“Actually,” said John through gritted teeth, “I didn't say any of that.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was implied in the fact that you put a ring on my finger,” he said, holding his hand up to show his wedding ring.

The woman stared at it, then her eyes darted to John's hand, where his own ring was. “You-” she gasped. “You bastard!” She went for her wine glass, but John was already there, grabbing it and moving it away before she could get to it. Lestrade was impressed with his reflexes.

“Wait, Melissa,” he said. “It's not like that.”

“Not like you're already married?” she hissed, her face going red. Hang on, thought Lestrade. That sounded as if she and John were on a date.

John hesitated. “Well, it's a bit like that,” he said, “but there's-”

Melissa went for John's wine glass, got hold of it before he could intervene, and threw the lot over him.

If John had been on a date with her despite being married to Sherlock, that was more than justified, in Lestrade's opinion. On the other hand, he couldn't really imagine John doing something that underhanded. He was pretty solidly a good bloke and even if he hadn't been, trying to cheat on Sherlock Holmes, Mr. I-can-tell-your-entire-past-from-your-fingernails himself, would have to be the single least intelligent thing anyone could ever do. John wasn't stupid enough for that, surely?

Still, Lestrade couldn't stop suppressed rage beginning to build in his chest and he took a deep breath. John was not Karen. This was not his marriage. He had no actual proof that John had done anything wrong, not yet.

John's reaction to a face full of wine contained more resignation than surprise. “It's not what you think,” he said, holding remarkable composure for someone with wine dripping off his nose and who was the focus of attention for the whole restaurant. “I was going to explain it to you, I just thought we should get to know each other a bit first – the date's less than an hour old.”

“Too late for that now,” said Sherlock. “Come on, John, there's a corpse getting cold.”

“I'll call you later,” John said to Melissa, as he stood up. “I'll explain then.”

“I won't pick up,” she said, then her face twisted into something disgusted. “Christ. I thought you were just wearing a ring from a previous marriage, in a pathetic-bastard-not-over-it-yet way. I was going to be so _understanding_.”

Lestrade felt the sudden weight of his own wedding ring and shifted awkwardly. It might be time to put that away, then.

“Right,” said John, picking up his coat. “Well, then, I'm really sorry, and please trust me that I wasn't playing games with you.” 

“You're a stone-cold bastard,” she said.

John sighed, then turned to glare at Sherlock. “Well done.”

Sherlock looked unconcerned. 

Lestrade wasn't sure what to think as they left the restaurant. On the face of it, it seemed pretty cut-and-dried. John had been on a date with someone who was not his husband while Sherlock had been home alone, playing with chemicals. John was a cheating bastard who deserved a punch in the face, and no, Lestrade wasn't putting his own emotions into the situation; that was just how things worked when you were married. John and Sherlock's marriage was probably a bit odd, but it couldn't be that odd, could it?

Except it was clear that Sherlock had known exactly where John was, and for what purpose, and had only bothered interrupting because there was a case to go to. John wasn't acting as if he'd done anything wrong – if anything, he seemed to think that Sherlock was at fault. 

There was definitely more going on here than Lestrade knew about. Best to keep quiet and get more information before deciding to judge the situation, and whether or not he was going to punch John. Sherlock might be an annoying prat, but Lestrade had known him too long to let anyone, even John Watson, get away with taking the piss and hurting whatever feelings Sherlock had repressed deep down within himself.

John was still scowling when they were back in the taxi and heading for the crime scene. 

“You and I both know you weren't going on another date with her. You were bored stiff,” said Sherlock as he handed him the napkin he had stolen from the restaurant. Christ, he'd guessed John was going to end up covered in wine in advance.

John mopped the wine off himself as best he could. “That's irrelevant. You have to stop doing this, Sherlock.”

“No, I don't,” said Sherlock. John glared at him. “Oh, don't look like that. You know I would be less abrupt if you were actually enjoying yourself.”

There was a stifled pause, then John admitted, “She was spending rather a lot of time talking about her dog.”

“Ah, of course,” said Sherlock with a nod. “Let me guess. Something small and yappy?”

“Yeah,” agreed John. “I suppose I would have been expected to meet the thing.”

“It would have humped your leg,” said Sherlock. “I was saving you.”

“Next time, try saving me in a way that doesn't end with wine all over me.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock. “That's the best part.”

There was a beat, and then they were both laughing. Lestrade stared at them both. Jesus Christ, they were both as insane as each other. And he was still completely in the dark. It seemed that just waiting and hoping all would become clear wasn't working – he'd have to start asking questions.

“Am I getting an explanation for any of this?” he asked.

“John likes to have sex with women,” replied Sherlock as if that was any kind of explanation. “He seems to think that wasting time in restaurants is the best way to accomplish that.”

“Oh, piss off,” said John in a comfortable, friendly tone. “Don't pretend that you didn't want the flat to yourself so that you could do something incredibly stupid and dangerous without me getting in the way by pointing out just how incredibly stupid and dangerous it was.”

“Something incredibly _clever_ and dangerous,” corrected Sherlock.

Lestrade wanted to smack his head against the taxi window. Just when he thought he was finally getting his head around understanding Sherlock, something like this would come along and reveal just how little he even knew about John. What kind of a marriage involved such easy acceptance of one of the spouses going after other people? He couldn't imagine ever having agreed to let Karen have her affairs while he remained married to her. Did Sherlock do it as well? Lestrade couldn't exactly imagine him going on dates, or being interested in women, but did he go off and find other men to shag on occasion?

He had a mental image of Sherlock sweeping into a gay bar, scowling at everyone and declaring them all dull. The idea of him actually having sex, even with John, took quite a lot of imagination.

That was when Lestrade decided that the whole thing was probably beyond his understanding, like so many other things about Sherlock. Neither John nor Sherlock seemed to have any problems with the situation, after all, and it seemed a far better use of his time to worry about Sherlock actually causing a zombie apocalypse while John stood by and said things like, 'don't let it infect dogs, that would be creepy' or 'right, I've stockpiled enough food and weapons to keep us going for at least six months.'

He did find a quiet moment later on though, when Sherlock was off hunting through a tangled garden for god-knew-what, to pull John to one side.

“Listen,” he said. “I can't pretend to be able to imagine what being married to that madman must be like, but that doesn't mean you should take advantage, okay?”

“Advantage?” repeated John.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “He's not got the most well-developed sense of what's normal or what he should expect from other people, but if you hurt him, there will be consequences, right?”

John stared at him for a moment, then glanced over at where Sherlock was engrossed with examining a hedge. “This is about six months later than I was expecting this conversation,” he said. “This is because of Melissa, isn't it?”

“In my experience, going out on a date when your husband's elsewhere is a bad thing,” said Lestrade.

John nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Put like that, it does sound bad. You don't have to worry, though. Sherlock doesn't care about it at all – you know he doesn't see things like other people do. And if he did have a problem with it, he'd make it very, very clear. Not just to me, but to everyone in a two mile radius.”

That was probably true. Lestrade felt himself relax a bit. Sherlock was a master manipulator, after all. If he wanted John to not go on dates, then John wouldn't be going on dates.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“And,” added John, “no offence, but if I was to hurt him somehow, it wouldn't be your retribution I'd be terrified of. Have you met his brother?”

Mycroft Holmes. The mysterious figure who turned up in the aftermath of tricky Sherlock situations looking far too good in a three-piece-suit, made a couple of cryptic comments, smiled a bit in what should have been an ominous manner but usually came across more as mysterious (and a bit sexy, if Lestrade were to be honest) and then disappeared as if he'd never been there in the first place.

Lestrade let out a snort. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Not sure I could match him on that one. He'd probably have you wiped out of existence before I even found out about it.”

“Exactly,” said John with a grin, and Lestrade had to admit Sherlock had been right earlier. You could tell when John was genuinely amused and when he was faking it. “He's a creepy bastard.”

“He's not that bad,” Lestrade found himself saying before he could stop himself.

John raised an eyebrow, and Lestrade cursed himself. This was not a good time to have his tiny, tiny, minuscule, barely-there crush on Mycroft Holmes outed.

Luckily, before John could comment, Sherlock was back. “John,” he said, “we're leaving.”

“Are we?” asked John.

“What have you found?” asked Lestrade.

“Probably nothing,” said Sherlock. He took John's elbow, pulling him away. “I'll let you know if it leads anywhere,” he said over his shoulder.

Lestrade sighed, watching as they left and hoping that whatever it was, John would be able to keep Sherlock from doing anything too stupid about it.

Sherlock's hand slid to take John's arm properly as they left, and John sent him a mischievous grin in response to whatever he was saying to him. Yeah, there was no hope of that.

****

April 2013

It was possible that Mycroft Holmes was flirting with him.

No, that couldn't possibly be right. Lestrade must have got the wrong end of the stick – just because Mycroft had been sending what could be construed as flirty texts, that didn't mean anything. He wasn't even sure that Mycroft knew what flirting was, and if he did, then an aging, constantly over-tired policeman would not be his target.

His phone beeped again.

_I would enjoy the chance to discuss this face to face. I have heard that you are particularly partial to doughnuts, and I know of a bakery that has some rather good ones, if you would like to give me the pleasure of your company._

Oh God, he was flirting. And now he was asking Lestrade out on a date. Lestrade stared at the phone, wondering how on earth he should reply to that. A large part of him wanted to say yes immediately, but he couldn't help thinking that a romantic relationship with a Holmes was not something to be jumped into lightly. Just look at John and Sherlock – married before anyone even knew they were going out, and living the kind of domestic bliss that included Sherlock staying home and playing mad scientist while John went off on dates with other people.

What if going out with Mycroft meant a similar arrangement? Could Lestrade have that kind of open relationship? God, no, he really couldn't. He wasn't the sharing kind – he'd learnt that the hard way.

As his fingers hovered indecisively over the keys of his phone, Sherlock burst into his office.

“I know where the gang is going to be in just under two hours,” he announced to Lestrade. “The murderer will be with them.”

Lestrade immediately stood up, tucking his phone away. Mycroft would have to wait until after the case, and if that gave Lestrade a bit longer to think over what he wanted to reply, well, that was only a good thing. 

“Right,” he said to Sherlock. “Where?”

Getting a team together for a raid at that sort of notice was more than a little tricky, but they managed it. Sherlock even deigned to ride in Lestrade's car on the way there, although he waited until they'd started moving before announcing, “We have to stop at a café on the way.”

“What?” asked Lestrade. “Sherlock, we don't have time for you to get a caffeine fix.”

Sherlock scowled. “We need John, but he's not answering my texts.”

They didn't need John – a team of police was perfectly capable of taking in one murderer without the aid of a retired Army doctor. Lestrade glanced at Sherlock's face and thought about pointing that out, and then about the inevitable tantrum if he did. Well, John had been on this case from the start and had taken a punch to the stomach for it already, it was probably only fair to get him for the conclusion.

Lestrade glanced at the clock, made a quick calculation on how much time they had and said, “Right, which café is he at, then?”

John wasn't alone in the café. He was sitting with a blonde woman of the type that Lestrade always thought of as 'cuddly'. He was sitting forward, smiling at her in an unmistakeable manner – he was on another date. One he actually seemed to be enjoying.

“Ah,” said Sherlock quietly when he saw them, and Lestrade hoped there wasn't going to be a repeat of last time. A wine-soaked shirt was one thing, second-degree burns from hot coffee was quite another.

“John,” said Sherlock, but it wasn't quite his usual imperious demand for attention. “I've located the murderer, and we're going to arrest him now.”

“Oh,” said John. “Right, good.” He looked over at the woman. “Sorry, I'm going to have to go.”

She looked resigned and nodded, then looked at Sherlock. “You must be the husband, then,” she said. Ah, John had got as far as mentioning that this time, had he? Lestrade tried to imagine having that conversation with someone, and failed. He then tried to imagine being in Sherlock's shoes, turning up to find his partner engaged in what seemed to be a pretty good date with someone else, and not really seeming to care. He failed at that as well.

“Yeah, this is Sherlock,” said John, standing up and reaching for his coat. “Sherlock, this is Katie. And this is our friend, Greg.”

Lestrade had to suppress a smile at that, because there was no way that Sherlock would ever have introduced him as 'our friend'. Or as 'Greg', come to that – did Sherlock even know his first name?

“Good to meet you,” he said, but Katie's attention was still fixed on Sherlock.

“Sorry, but – you're really not bothered by this,” she said, waving her hand between her and John.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I will be bothered if we miss this murderer, though.” Katie looked as confused by that attitude as Lestrade would have been if he hadn't had enough experience of Sherlock to predict it. Murderers came before everything else.

“Yes, yes, I'm coming,” said John. He bent and kissed Katie's cheek. “I'll call you later.”

“Right,” she said, still looking at Sherlock with narrow eyes. Sherlock didn't appear to notice, too busy twitching an eyebrow at John and tapping at his watch. “It was good to finally meet you.”

“Yes, lovely,” said Sherlock in a completely unconvincing voice, then he took hold of John's elbow and started to hustle him towards the door. Lestrade gave Katie a quick smile and hurried after them. He wouldn't put Sherlock past hot-wiring his car if he thought Lestrade was taking too long.

“Well, there goes my chance of some afternoon nookie,” said John as Lestrade pulled out into traffic. Lestrade bit his tongue to suggest that he could always have some with Sherlock instead. Knowing his luck, Sherlock would decide that meant the back seat of Lestrade's car was available for their use later, once he was bored of all the post-arrest faffing about that was inevitable with a sting this big.

“Capturing a murderer will be far more entertaining,” said Sherlock, which was sadly exactly how Lestrade had thought his priorities would pan out. He wondered if that was why John had his girlfriends; because Sherlock thought murder was more exciting than sex. 

John just snorted in reply. Clearly, he knew all about Sherlock's priorities as well.

“Besides,” added Sherlock. “It likely won't take the whole day. I'm sure she'd let you go around this evening to make it up to her.”

“Oh no,” said John. “You don't get out of it that easily. You told me that once this case was over, you'd let me make sure you actually get some proper food in you. We're going to Angelo's this evening.”

Sherlock let out a melodramatic sigh, but Lestrade could see from his expression as he glanced out of his side window that he was pleased by that.

Well, it seemed that John's priorities were in the right place, at any rate. Feeding his husband up should definitely come before sex with some random woman.

Later, Lestrade found himself crouched behind a stack of wooden crates with John, while Sherlock stood silent and still in the shadows of the doorway to their left. According to Sherlock's timeline, they had at least fifteen minutes before the gang turned up and Lestrade couldn't help turning his quandary over in his mind. Should he risk getting involved with a Holmes and getting screwed over? Could he really turn down the chance at someone like Mycroft, someone handsome, intelligent and poised, someone that Lestrade would have said was way out of his league? Was he going to end up in some highly confusing tangle of a relationship if he did? Was he over-thinking this too much? It was just coffee and a doughnut, after all.

No, he was too old to go rushing into these things without thinking them over properly first, sorting out exactly what he wanted before he let himself get all twisted around over someone. He knew himself, and Mycroft, well enough to know that if he let himself fall, he was going to fall hard.

“John?” he asked in the quietest whisper he could manage, hoping Sherlock was far enough away not to hear.

“Yeah?” responded John, not tearing his eyes away from the entrance Sherlock had claimed the gang would walk through.

“How did you and Sherlock end up like you are? I mean, with you sleeping with women, and all that?” John turned and stared at him, but Lestrade kept going. “Did you talk about it from the start?”

“Ah,” said John. “It's not-” He stopped and gave a little shrug. “I don't know. We just seemed to fall into it, really. Getting married was a bit of an impulse thing, and there didn't seem any point in changing our patterns because of it.”

“Right,” said Lestrade. Not helpful. “So, what? You both just have sex with whoever you fancy, or do you have rules?”

“Oh, no,” said John. “It's not like that, it's-” He paused, frowning. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock. “He doesn't have sex. At all.”

Lestrade blinked and processed that. “Not even with you?”

John let out a little half-laugh, as if that idea was ridiculous. “Especially not with me,” he said. “I'm not- I'm only into women, really.”

Jesus. This was just getting more complicated and confusing, not less so. Sherlock didn't do sex, and John didn't do men, so John went out and shagged women in his free time? Well, on second thought, it made a certain amount of sense – of the Sherlock kind of sense - but Lestrade wasn't sure he'd want anything like that. If he was going to be with Mycroft, he'd definitely want to shag him. The way the man could wear a waistcoat, Jesus, it would practically be his duty as a red-blooded bisexual man.

“Right,” he said. Well, that hadn't got him any closer to making a decision over this bloody date.

“Greg, is there some reason for the sudden interest?” asked John.

Lestrade considered it for a moment, then figured a second opinion from someone else who knew the Holmes brothers might not be a bad idea. “Mycroft asked me out.”

John stared. “Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?”

“How many other Mycrofts do you think there are?” asked Lestrade.

“And you want to go?” said John.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, because he was certain of that much at least. He did want to go, and get to spend an hour or so in Mycroft's company, see if he could get him to enjoy a proper old-fashioned doughnut the way it deserved, or if he'd just pick at something fancy with a fork. “Just, I'm getting too old for casual, and after what happened with Karen and all, well. And he's a Holmes.”

“Ah,” said John with understanding. “You think because what Sherlock and I have is unconventional, whatever you and Mycroft would have would be as well.”

“Put like that, it sounds stupid,” said Lestrade.

“It does, a bit,” agreed John. He looked over at the door again, then took a deep breath. “Look, we both know that Holmeses aren't like most people, but they're not really like each other either. I wouldn't judge anything Mycroft might do on what Sherlock has done. After all, if he was following Sherlock's pattern, then he'd have proposed rather than asked you out.”

Sherlock and John hadn't been going out before Sherlock had proposed? There was a noise outside, and then the gang entered before Lestrade could find a response to that.

An extremely professionally executed arrest later, Lestrade was watching the last of the gang being driven off when Sherlock stalked up to him.

“That was a good catch,” Lestrade said to him. “Thanks.”

“It would have been obvious to you, if you'd just paid attention to the right details,” he said, which was a pretty standard Sherlock response to a compliment. He pulled himself up straight and announced, “I think you should know that Mycroft and I have differing opinions on sexual activities, and that he is boringly monogamous.” He paused while Lestrade stared at him, hoping like hell that none of his team were listening in on this. “Also, if he has asked you out rather than just got someone to abduct you, then your opinion is extremely important to him.”

He swept away before Lestrade could find any kind of response to that, which was probably a good thing. Had he- was that Sherlock's version of his blessing? Jesus Christ.

He took a deep breath, and pulled out his phone. Time to man up.

_Just closed a case so I could do with some kind of celebration, and doughnuts sound like a great idea. When are you free?_

****

January 2014

Doughnuts turned into dinners together, which turned into nights spent in Mycroft's ridiculously opulent bed, which, after several months had passed, turned into taking Lestrade's children to the Natural History Museum. It was a good day, not least because Mycroft spent the first two hours with the closest Lestrade had ever seen to sheer terror on his face. He did pretty well though, discussing fashion with Laura in far more detail than Lestrade could have kept up with, and answering Carl's many, many questions without ever growing impatient with him. Lestrade took a moment to picture Sherlock at age ten, and realised that no matter how many questions Carl asked, he was unlikely to ever come close to what Sherlock had been like.

Afterwards, Karen accused Lestrade of 'confusing the children by introducing them to your fancy man', which seemed a little unfair given that _her_ fancy man was practically living with them, and still teaching Carl P.E. 

Still, the next time he had them, he asked if they had any questions about him and Mycroft, and received the kind of epic eye-roll from Laura that made him dread the moment she crossed over into actual teenage-hood on her next birthday.

“Come on, Dad, this isn't the dark ages. Nobody cares about gay or straight any more.”

She was completely wrong, but Lestrade couldn't find it in himself to take her naivety away just yet.

“Besides,” added Carl. “Zachary Quinto is gay, and he's awesome.”

“Ah,” said Lestrade, wondering if that was someone from Carl's school or if he should try googling the name.

Laura let out a long, put-upon sigh. “He plays Spock, Dad. God, how can you not know that?”

_Because I thought Leonard Nimoy played Spock_ , thought Lestrade but didn't voice it. He could tell when something was only going to lead to more pained looks, and he got enough of that from Sherlock.

“Actually,” said Laura, “there is one thing I'm confused about.” 

Lestrade braced himself. _Please, let it be nothing about sex,_ he thought. 

“How on earth did you manage to get someone like Mycroft? He wears _waistcoats_.”

Lestrade laughed. “I haven't got a clue,” he said, then wondered if appreciation of a good waistcoat was something that was passed on genetically. That could lead to her bringing home some rather interesting boyfriends (or some even more interesting girlfriends) once she got a bit older.

About two weeks later, he woke up slowly in Mycroft's bed. He could feel his body still thrumming with contentedness from last night's extremely good sex, and he thought that this was just the right kind of perfect to wake up to. Neither of them enjoyed sleeping wrapped around the other – it just got a bit hot and sweaty in Lestrade's opinion - but he could feel the solid presence of Mycroft against his back and hear his soft breathing. 

_Let's hope I'm waking up like this for a good long time,_ he thought sleepily, and then was startled into full wakefulness by the realisation that he was already thinking about his relationship Mycroft in the long-term, and that it was far easier than he'd have expected to picture the rest of his life with a Holmes by his side.

_Wonder if John ever had this moment?_ he thought, then realised that if he had, it would have been in a different setting. If he and Sherlock didn't have sex, then he'd have never woken up feeling like this. Well, not with Sherlock, anyway – he probably had with the women he went out with.

And that triggered another thought. Was it really possible to maintain a long-term relationship with someone when you were spending these sorts of moments with other people?

“You are thinking far too hard for this time of the morning,” said Mycroft.

Lestrade snorted, and turned so that he could see him. “As if you don't think ten times as much as I do at all times,” he said.

Mycroft reached out a hand to brush through Lestrade's hair. “Not at all times,” he said. “I seem to recall you finding a rather admirable way to shut down most of my thought processes last night.”

Lestrade grinned at the recollection, then found himself going serious again as the thought sparked against what he'd just been thinking about. “Did you know that John and Sherlock don't have sex?”

Mycroft blinked very slowly, and Lestrade took a moment to appreciate that he'd managed to surprise him. That was always something of an achievement.

“Should I be worried that you're thinking about my brother's sexual habits whilst in bed with me?” he asked.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Of course not. You must know I've no interest in that mad bastard.”

“Of course not,” agreed Mycroft. He was silent for a moment as he looked at Lestrade with that intense, I-can-see-right-into-your-brain stare that was apparently encoded into the DNA of every Holmes. _The Lestrades get a waistcoat fetish, and the Holmeses get an all-seeing gaze. Something not right about that._

Something softened around the edges of Mycroft's eyes, and his hand travelled down to Lestrade's neck, cupping gently against his skin. “You don't need to worry about Sherlock and John,” he said. “They have their moments of easy comfort.”

Easy comfort, thought Lestrade. Yes, that was this moment precisely. Trust Mycroft to know exactly what he was thinking, and be able to phrase it better than he could. He pushed forward so that he could press a kiss to Mycroft's lips. He didn't have to be at work for at least two hours – plenty of time to see if they couldn't manage a repeat of last night.

When he eventually got to work, it was to find it was one of those nightmare days where nothing seemed to go right. The lab results on the Bentley case went against everything the other evidence implied, Sally was snappy all day because Anderson was going through one of his periodic attempts at being faithful to his wife, and just as Lestrade was thinking of escaping home, a report came in that the current main suspect on the Bentley case had been found murdered, and had been dead for at least three days.

“Screw this,” he said, looking down at the corpse and trying to come up with a theory – any theory – that fitted all the facts without involving a time machine. “I'm getting Sherlock in on this.”

Sally let out an almighty sigh but didn't say anything, which meant she was just as baffled as he was.

Sherlock was at home, plucking at his violin and staring at the ceiling, but he leapt up as soon as Lestrade mentioned murder.

“We'll need John,” he said, grabbing his coat and taking off down the stairs. Lestrade followed, wishing, not for the first time, that he could have found a detective who was less of a trial to work with. He and Mycroft had watched Miss Marple last night – that was more what he needed. A nice little old lady, who'd pat his hand when he was stressed, and make him tea. As he headed downstairs after Sherlock, he wondered if Mrs. Hudson had ever given detective work a thought.

Sherlock was giving the driver the address of a restaurant as Lestrade got into the taxi. “As quick as you can,” he added.

“There's no great hurry,” said Lestrade. “The man has been dead for days already.”

Sherlock shot him a dark look, but didn't comment. When they got to the restaurant, he jumped out of the taxi and Lestrade hurried to follow. It seemed likely that there was going to be fireworks of one sort or another, with the mood Sherlock was in. After the day Lestrade'd had, that seemed about par for the course.

Sherlock paused at the window, glaring at where John and a woman were sitting together. “Oh, look at that,” he said in disgust.

“I thought you were okay with him seeing women,” said Lestrade.

“Oh, seeing is fine,” said Sherlock. “What do I care about _seeing_?” He glared through the window again. “This one wants to keep him.”

“Oh, right,” said Lestrade. “Well, does John want to, ah, be kept?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. He turned away from the window and started to head inside. “He's just not any good at seeing through charades.”

He strode through the restaurant with Lestrade on his heels, hoping like hell that this wasn't going to turn into a domestic. He'd thought he'd left behind having to deal with those when he joined CID.

“John,” said Sherlock in an excited and pleased tone of voice. “Good news! Lestrade has agreed to have a threesome with us. I told you I'd find someone before you!”

John choked on the sip of wine he'd just taken. “Sherlock!” he said.

“What?!” exclaimed the woman, and sent a furious glare at Sherlock, then at Lestrade, before finally settling it on John. “John, you told me you don't have sex with him!”

“I don't!” protested John. “He's joking.” He glared at Sherlock. “Not that it's particularly funny.”

“I thought it was,” said Sherlock. “I rather enjoy that look on your face.”

“You're a bastard,” said John, but it lacked feeling. Lestrade had the feeling that he'd have thought it was funny too, if the woman had taken it better. 

John turned to Lestrade. “Hello, Greg. I take it there's been a murder.”

“Yeah, afraid so,” said Lestrade. “Seems like the threesome will have to wait.”

That got him a very black look from John's date and an amused quirk of the mouth from Sherlock.

“Right,” said John, pulling his napkin off his lap and standing up. “I'm sorry, Helen.”

“You're leaving?” she asked.

“There's been a murder,” pointed out John. “You know that means I have to go.”

“You don't _have_ to go!” she said. “It's not your job to drop everything and run off after criminals and even if it was, you'd still be allowed time off occasionally. John, we're halfway through dinner!”

“I'm sorry,” said John again. “I really do have to go – Sherlock needs my help.”

“And a murder will be far more interesting than dinner,” added Sherlock. John sent him a you're-not-helping glare.

“Sherlock can solve it on his own,” said Helen. “John, it's our anniversary!”

John looked blankly at her. “It is?”

“Of course it is! It's been two months since our first date.”

Sherlock laughed. “John doesn't do very well at remembering anniversaries,” he said. “Particularly not stupid ones like that.”

Helen glared at him. “You can shut up,” she said. “I think you've done quite enough for him, don't you?”

“Not at all,” said Sherlock. “I intend to keep doing things for John for a very long time yet.”

John huffed out a breath that sounded equal parts exasperation, amusement, and affection. “Sherlock, don't wind her up.” He took out his wallet. “Look, Helen, I'll leave enough to cover the bill, and I'll call you when we're done, or tomorrow morning if it gets too late, and we can reschedule.”

“You're actually leaving?” she asked, sounding completely dumb-founded by the idea.

“Uh, yeah,” said John. “Look, you know that I have to rush off sometimes. I'm sorry, but this is my life.”

“No,” said Helen, sounding vicious. “This is his life,” she jabbed a finger at Sherlock. “You don't have to let him sweep you up in it.”

John's jaw hardened. “It's _our_ life,” he corrected. “That's what marriage means. And I wouldn't change it.” He took some money out of his wallet and put it on the table. “I really am sorry, Helen, but this is important to me.”

“More important than me?” asked Helen, and Lestrade winced. That seemed like a really bad question to ask in any situation, but especially this one.

“Of course it is,” said Sherlock before John could find a response. “I would have thought would have been obvious. Why do you think he's wearing _my_ ring?” He took rather too much pleasure in emphasising his ownership of John, but Lestrade couldn't find it in himself to blame him. His possessiveness was nothing to what Lestrade would have done if some woman was trying to poach his man.

Helen spluttered, then picked up her wine glass and threw the contents at Sherlock.

“Helen!” cried John. “Christ, that was unnecessary!” He picked up his napkin from the table and handed it to Sherlock, who started to pat ineffectually at himself, scowling bitterly.

There was a cleared throat behind them and Lestrade turned to see two waiters glaring at them. “Yeah, sorry, we're just leaving,” he said.

Helen pushed back her chair and stood up. “For god's sake, John, look at yourself! You're running around playing cops and robbers as if you're a small child, following this lunatic about and letting him control your whole life!”

“I control my life,” said John. “It is exactly how I want it to be, especially the parts where I get to help my husband with his work.” He put his hand on Sherlock's arm. “Come on, let's get to that murder.”

“I'm covered in wine,” protested Sherlock.

“And how many crime scenes have you dragged me to in the same condition?” asked John. “I think you're more than due some karmic retribution on that one.”

“John,” said Helen in a tense voice. “If you walk out now, we're over.”

John let out a long sigh. “Look, Helen,” he said. “I really like you, but I am perfectly happy with how my life is. I told you from the start that I only had space in my life for a casual thing between us. If you can't accept that, then maybe it's best that we go our separate ways.”

She didn't have an answer for that. They left the restaurant and Lestrade glanced through the window as they headed back to the taxi. She was sitting alone at the table, being stared at by almost everyone else in the restaurant.

“I can't believe she threw wine at me,” muttered Sherlock darkly once they were in the back of the cab.

“I can't believe you told her we were going to have a threesome,” said John.

“You mean we're not?” said Lestrade. “Oh, now I'm heartbroken.”

“I'm sure you'll get over it,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft would hardly have approved, anyway.”

“I'm serious, Sherlock,” said John. “I thought we'd agreed that you weren't allowed to pull stunts like that when I actually liked the woman I was with.”

“Is it my fault that she wasn't able to take a joke?” asked Sherlock. “Besides, you didn't like _her_ , you liked who you thought she was.”

“And of course you know who she really is,” said John.

“So do you, now,” said Sherlock. “She finally showed you. John, she wanted to _change_ you.” He said it as if the prospect was both completely inexplicable and incredibly disgusting.

John was silent for a few minutes, then let out a sigh. “Yeah, I know,” he said, sounding worn out.

Apparently that signalled the end of the conversation, because neither he nor Sherlock said anything else. Lestrade, who had been doing his best to pretend he wasn't there once it became clear that the conversation had strayed into the dodgy area of relationship dynamics, didn't notice until they were nearly there that John's hand had strayed to Sherlock's thigh, and Sherlock's fingers had closed over it.

_For two blokes who aren't having sex, one of whom keeps sleeping with women, they can be pretty sickeningly cute,_ he thought.

_They have their own moments of easy comfort,_ he remembered Mycroft saying, and then how disgusted Sherlock had been by the idea of anyone wanting to change John. That was it, then. Sherlock didn't care about John spending time with women, or even sleeping with them, because anything else would have meant changing him and he didn't want that. It was only when one of them tried to claim more of John than Sherlock was willing to relinquish that it became a problem, and John had made his choice on that one more than clear.

It all seemed horridly complicated to Lestrade. He wondered if it seemed simpler from the inside, and then comforted himself with the thought of how easy things were with Mycroft. He reached into his pocket to touch his phone automatically, thinking about texting him, but Sherlock would almost certainly know exactly what he'd typed if he did. It could wait.

A moment later, they arrived at the crime scene and Sherlock was dragging John out of the taxi after him, already talking about the local atmospheric conditions and how that would have affected the decomposition of the corpse. Just another day in the Holmes-Watson marriage, thought Lestrade with amusement as he paid the taxi driver.


End file.
